Page 110 of Once Upon A Second Chance
We find her in the hallway, halfway between the kitchen and the back bedroom, curled on the floor with one arm clutched against her ribs. Her hair’s askew, and her glasses are hanging by one arm from the neck of her sweater.
“Oh, God,” Penny mutters, dropping to her knees beside her.
“I slipped,” Mrs. Delaney gasps. “I was just getting tea, and the floor was wet, and—” She winces. “Think I landed wrong.”
I crouch beside them, quickly but gently checking her vitals. Her breathing’s shallow, but steady. There’s no bleeding, no obvious break, but she’s favoring her side like hell.
“I think you cracked a rib,” I say softly. “We need to get you looked at.”
Penny takes her hand, soothing. “We’ll get an ambulance, okay? You’re going to be fine.”
Mrs. Delaney nods weakly, trying to smile. “I know I am when I got you two superstars with me.”
I glance at Penny—sleeves rolled up, hair wild from the wind, jaw set like she’s ready to take onanything—and something settles in my chest. Not fear. Not even doubt.
Just certainty. Certainty that we would make it through, as a team. For better or for worse.
Maybe it’s just the hour—late enough that the waiting room of the hospital is quiet, but early enough the halls still buzz with shift change chatter and clattering carts—but I sense the looks and the stares.
Maybe it’s the way the nurses smile politely but cautiously when they recognize me. It’s not because of my name—it’s the story.
The scandal. The redemption. Small-town memory is sharp, and rumor travels faster than blood through a vein.
But tonight, none of that matters. Tonight, I’m just here with a neighbor and the womanI love.
Mrs. Delaney was lucky. They confirmed one cracked rib, no internal bleeding, and nothing worse than a bruised ego and a painkiller prescription.
She's tucked into a curtain-drawn cubicle now, half-dozing under a warm blanket and already asking if she can bribe someone into releasing her in time to watch the morning weather forecast.
While we wait for the attending to finish writing her discharge orders, I slip into shop talk with the ER resident on duty—Dr. Callahan, a young guy I vaguely remember supervising during a clinical rotation back in New York. Small world, I guess. He’s a little star struck, which is unsettling, but I let it slide.
“Imaging looked clean,” Callahan says, scrolling through the scans on the tablet. “Minimal displacement on the sixth rib. Honestly, could’ve been a lot worse.”
“She mentioned hitting the counter on the way down,” I say, glancing over the scan. “I’d give her a follow-up chest X-ray in three days just to be safe. Make sure there’s no delayed pneumothorax.”
Callahan nods. “We’ll set it up. Thanks for your help tonight, Dr.—uh, Richard.”
I offer a smile. “Just Richard’s fine.”
I glance past him toward the far end of the hallway, where Penny leans against the wall just outside Mrs. Delaney’s room.
She looks tired, but solid. Still in the hoodie she threw on during the chaos, her hair pulled back into a lazy braid, her hands tucked into her sleeves like she’s trying to hold warmth close.
Except her right hand keeps drifting back to her stomach. Lightly. Almost absently. Like she doesn’t even know she’s doing it.
A protective instinct. Quiet. Subconscious.
It catches me off guard.
Not because it’s strange—but because it’s not. Because it looks so natural on her. Because it’s real.
She’s not justthinkingabout being pregnant anymore.
She’sfeelingit.
I step away from the nurse’s station and walk over to her, not saying anything at first. Just standing beside her in that soft white hallway filled with antiseptic and hums and after-midnightfatigue.
Her eyes meet mine, and she smiles. It’s a small smile, but not forced.
